Playing With Fire
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Monsters in the Mirror, #9. *She might be fire, but Oliver decides that he actually likes getting burned.* A further exploration of the MitM universe, this time involving a little teamwork, a few blades, and a whole lot of sexual tension. Rated M for graphic violence. Complete.


**Title: Playing With Fire  
Word Count: 11,823**

 **Notes:** I know I've been absent for a few weeks, but it's been kind of a rough December in these parts. It was a rough semester, and it took me a while to get my swagger back. I'm sure I could come up with some excuse, but I simply didn't feel like writing. Or doing much of anything, for that matter. But don't worry—I'm back and better than ever. I started poking around some of my old ideas to get the muse going again, and I found the first scene and a half of this one sitting around.

I apologize because this one starts a little more abruptly than I usually like, but I think it works for this.

I guess the most important note for you all should be to check the word count; this is nearly double the size of the last post in this universe. In addition to that, I've discovered something very important about me: I shouldn't be allowed to wield the power of UST. I'm not responsible to use something so powerful wisely. Take that as you will.

I'd love to hear what you think, especially since I'm sitting around with nothing to do for the next few weeks, it seems. In the interim, I think I'm going to try to work up something else to post. This has been too fun not to continue the fun. ;)

 **This story takes place after the portion in Bits and Pieces.** Once I finish that, I'll have to tweak the order a little; I seem to be jumping around in this universe.

* * *

Oliver feels his blood go cold as the words crackle across the speaker: "Everything's going according to plan. Iron Heights is under lockdown as of now." It makes his intense dislike for Jason Brodeur only increase as he realizes what's happening. Brodeur is powerful enough to pay to arrange a prison hit, and he knows for a fact that Laurel Lance—his lawyer ex-girlfriend, who he was stupid enough to drag into this mess—is at Iron Heights at this very moment, trying to talk to Peter Declan. Even though he warned her that she should stay away tonight, she didn't want to listen to him.

He doesn't waste time talking after he hears that, simply dropping the man with a swift punch to the jaw while his other hand reaches for his phone and hits the first number on his speed dial. While waiting for her to pick up, he decides that he shouldn't be standing around waiting for an answer. Instead, he fires an arrow into the building across the street, rappelling down toward his motorcycle in an adrenaline-induced rush.

Finally she picks up. Violence sounds from the other end as she speaks, her voice sounding ominous under that modulator. "Arrow," she greets with a cheerful lilt to her voice, suggesting the fight is going in her favor tonight. Not that Oliver would expect anything different from the masked crusader the papers like to call Deathstroke. "What can I do for you, my friend?"

Any other time, he would take a moment to note that she called him a friend for the very first time, but tonight his focus is on one thing only: fixing his very large mistake by bringing a civilian into this. "There's a prison riot in Iron Heights set up by Brodeur," he informs her tersely, between breaths as he drops to the ground and starts running. "Laurel's there." There's no need to inform her of anything else; they may not always work together, but she knows about his case just as surely as he knows she's probably slicing through Slade's former commander in the Fenghuang Cartel with a dark glint in her eyes and a satisfied smile on her face.

There's a groan and then a thud before she promises, "I'm on comms and two minutes out."

* * *

While Laurel has spent a career saving the innocent, she has to admit that tonight is the last thing she expected—or _wanted_. While Peter Declan was already back in lockup before the sirens started blaring and his block wasn't released, now she's realized that most of the violent criminals housed in Iron Heights have free run of the prison.

The inmates go after the guards first in a rush, and though Laurel wants nothing more than to stop the screams and carnage, she can't do anything to stop it. Instead, she curls into the nearest corner, making herself as small a target as possible. Eventually they'll come after her, too, but hopefully not before police, SWAT, or the Arrow arrive. She can't fight all of them, and she knows it. Maybe, she's starting to admit, this was what the Arrow was trying to warn her about. Maybe she should have listened.

The screaming becomes more pronounced, and then Laurel notices the liquid starting to pool on the floor, almost impossible to discern the color in the dark prison. Slowly it seeps into the light, and her stomach turns when she realizes it's red. Blood. There seems to be a lot of it, even for the violence playing out in front of her. For a long moment, she wonders what she's missing, but then it becomes clear to her when a gleaming sword blossoms between an inmate's shoulder blades. Just as quickly as it entered, it disappears. The man crumples immediately, subjecting Laurel to one of the most unnatural sights of her entire life.

It isn't really the fact that there's a sword-wielding killer in front of her. Nor does it have anything to with the fact that the figure in front of her is dressed in black leather from neck to toes. It has to do with the mask, split vertically down the middle into black and gold halves. While chilling on its own, her reaction has more to do with what it represents than the surreal nature of the person standing in front of her. She breathes the name in a whisper, barely believing her own eyes.

"The Vengeance of Starling."

At least, that's what the papers have been calling the man who has been terrorizing Starling City by night for the past three years. Laurel never really did like the name, was glad it never caught on. Admittedly, the one that did wasn't much better, but "Deathstroke" has a certain truth to it that she can't ignore now that she's faced with the evidence.

The grainy picture that was plastered across newspapers for a month doesn't do him justice. That one barely identified him, but now that she's seeing Deathstroke in the flesh, Laurel thinks the first name is more accurate now. If vengeance were personified, she would imagine it looking very similar to the wraith standing before her, with the swords at his side dripping blood. While the Arrow might seem like a human being in a Halloween costume, Deathstroke is otherworldly, something standing in front of her that does _not_ belong in her reality.

Deathstroke's boots march through the blood, as if killing is an afterthought, turning straight toward Laurel with intention. Knowing there's nowhere to run, Laurel stays in place, transfixed at the sight of him. Only when he closes in does she realize there's something very wrong with this picture. In a bout of either bravery or foolishness, she blurts, "I thought you'd be taller."

It's a fair statement; she'd always thought someone with a nickname like Deathstroke would be tall and imposing. The person in front of her, however, is somewhere around five and a half feet in thick-heeled combat boots. When the swords lower, their tips nearly drag across the floor. Only then does Laurel realize he's small in stature—almost _dainty_ in size and bone structure.

Deathstroke regards her statement for a moment, his head tilting to the side. With the black clothing and the dark rooms, it nearly looks as though the mask is floating in midair. "I get that a lot," he answers in a quiet tone, his voice coming out through a masking device not dissimilar to the Arrow's. Even though there's a lilt to his tone that suggests amusement, of all things, his voice still manages to sound twice as threatening as his archer counterpart. "The Arrow sends his regards," the monster continues. "I have an earpiece for you—he wants to speak with you." A sword goes into the sheath on his back, and he rummages in a pocket for the device in question, offering it to her with a gloved hand.

Laurel scrambles back, away from the demon in front of her. Fear sends chills down her spine, and something tells her not to trust this man—perhaps the instinct of a detective's daughter. "How do I know this isn't some sort of trap?" she asks, dubious of his intent. "Some way to—"

Deathstroke cuts her off. "To kill you?" he finishes for her, and Laurel flinches at the word. Then a sound leaves his modulator that sounds almost like a scoff. "If I wanted to kill you, Miss Lance, you'd already be dead and we wouldn't be having this conversation." He stops to think about it. "Maybe we would, but I don't think you'd be an active participant." It takes Laurel a moment to realize it was a joke, albeit a morbid one; the Arrow _never_ jokes, and she'd expect this man to be more stoic than even him.

He mutters something under his breath before huffing an impatient sigh. "The way I see it, you have two choices. You can sit here all night and wait for a shiv in the neck—or worse." Something in his tone is chilling, and it takes a moment for it to dawn on Laurel. Iron Heights houses only the worst criminals: the genocidal maniacs, the ritualistic killers, and the serial rapists. It's a sobering thought. " _Or_ ," the murderer before her continues, "you can take your chances with me. I can't guarantee you'll live, but I can't guarantee that you'll die, either. But I _can_ guarantee that I'm not going to hurt you—and that the only way _they_ will is over my dead body." Then he offers the earpiece again. "That's a better offer than you'll get from them."

Another shiver works its way down Laurel's spine before she snatches the comm out of his hand. "Good choice," he approves, though not condescendingly, as she places the device in her ear. "The Arrow said you were smart." Then he shrugs as though it's of little consequence. "Then again, he sent _me_ , a killer, to save you, so I'm not sure what that says about his judgment."

"That it's very sound," another modulated voice answers from Laurel's earpiece. This one, however, makes her sigh in relief. The Arrow _is_ in on this, as Deathstroke told her. "They're only afraid of you because they don't understand you. If the public knew what we shielded them from, they'd realize who the _real_ monsters are." Something about his tone sends a shiver down Laurel's spine. His voice hardens a little as he adds, "You could have been a little softer with her, though."

Deathstroke shrugs in dismissal. "I gave it to her straight because Miss Lance is strong enough to handle it," he retorts, and Laurel thinks there might be a compliment in there somewhere. "Just because she's never seen cold, hard reality like this before doesn't mean she's going to break. It takes more than that to destroy us women."

It's the pronoun in there that makes Laurel stumble as she rises to her feet—surely she heard that wrong. In all the years Deathstroke has been active, through all the grainy photos, no one has ever stopped to consider the Vengeance of Starling might actually be _female_. Now, though, as she looks at the masked crusader, she can't help but wonder. It would explain the slight build and the height.

As if to confirm her point, the Arrow answers, "I think you're proof of that." There's something in his tone Laurel has never heard before—something that sounds almost like respect and admiration. Along with his earlier comment, it's enough to make her wonder if the papers aren't wrong about Deathstroke.

A hand on her arm, however, keeps her from contemplating that for too long. "You're with me, Miss Lance," Deathstroke declares, and the woman in the mask ushers her forward. "Stay behind me—but not too close. I don't want to clip you with a swing." Then she motions to her ear before drawing the sword she sheathed earlier. "Now talk to lover boy—tell him you're alright and that I haven't scarred you for life."

"Thank you for that, Deathstroke," the Arrow replies dryly, and Laurel thinks she can hear hints of amusement peeking through in his tone. Then he turns his attention to Laurel, all emotion immediately fading from his voice. "How are you, Laurel? Are you injured?"

"I'm fine," Laurel assures him in a small voice. She might be a little traumatized by this for a while, but she thinks Deathstroke might be right—she can take it. "Deathstroke found me before they did." She does as the vigilante in question asks, staying a couple of yards behind her while making sure not to dawdle. Then she can't help but ask, "You sent her to save me?"

She doesn't expect an answer, but one comes anyway. "I was on the other side of town when I heard about the riot," he answers, "and she was closer." Slowly Laurel realizes she should be flattered; he cared enough about her safety to bring in his sometimes-partner. Then, in a rare show of human emotion, he adds, "I know what they want you to think about her, but she'll protect you—if for no reason other than I asked her to." The brunette tries to decipher that for a moment, but his voice cuts through her thoughts as he turns his attention back to the other vigilante. "I'm on site now, Deathstroke. Where are you and where do you need me?" he demands of her, his voice turning all business for a moment.

"Northeast corridor," she answers tersely, leveling her swords as if gearing up for a fight. "I'm heading for the south exit since the north one is teeming with criminals—I'm not sure even the two of us could handle that." Her head tilts upward. "There's a walkway above me, probably used for patrols. Looks like it extends through the facility. I could use you up there to lay down cover. I hope you remembered to fill your quiver."

When his voice comes through again, there's a dark promise in it. "If I run out of arrows, I don't need the bow, Deathstroke," he declares. There's a soft sound that almost sounds like a chuckle, and Laurel decides these two must be friends. The familiarity in their conversations is something more than colleagues. Maybe that's why they work together sometimes. "Especially if you'll let me use one of your swords."

She must find that funny for some reason, because the sound that leaves Deathstroke is something like a laugh. "I'd give you both of them," she promises. "You'd need them both to keep up with those criminals—I've seen you with a sword before. Unless, of course, they died of embarrassment at your sword technique."

The Arrow snorts at that. "You're one to talk," he retorts without missing a beat. There's a slight grunt before he adds, "I wouldn't give you a bow if you asked for it. Anything six feet to the right of your target might actually be in danger." Laurel startles at that; she always thought the Arrow was stoic and unemotional, but apparently he has a personality buried in there somewhere. For the first time it occurs to her that behind those masks, they're both people who probably have jobs and families and everyday lives. She could walk by these two every day for all she knows.

And then she realizes that tonight, she's seeing the people _behind_ Deathstroke and the Arrow.

"I told you, my contact was out of place," Deathstroke answers tiredly, as though they've had this conversation time and time again. Despite her situation, Laurel finds herself wrapped up in their banter, in the playful side they bring out in each other and the subtle information they're sharing about themselves. "My second shot was better—within the little blue ring and everything. So yeah, I might suck on occasion, but friendly reminder that I disarmed you without a weapon because your form was _that_ pathetic." Her head tilts to the side. "My mentor used to say that he knew girl scouts who fought better than I did. I bet that if he saw _you_ , he would have apologized to me—and to girl scouts everywhere."

Surprisingly, the Arrow seems to take the insult well, only letting loose a soft laugh. "If Laurel wasn't with you, I'd leave you to fend for yourself," he informs her, but his tone makes Laurel think that it's a blatant lie. It's clear he's fond of the female vigilante—and their playful tones almost make her forget they're both notorious killers. "I think we need to finish this on the mats tonight." Then there's a thud above them that makes the lawyer let out a partial shriek, but then she recognizes the hood pulled over the man's head. "I'm covering you, Deathstroke."

"Don't worry about me—I can handle myself," she retorts. "You keep those arrows on Miss Lance." She tilts her head to the side. "Maybe if you save her life, it'll get the detective off your very nice ass." It makes Laurel nearly miss a step; she never thought they might have been _flirting_ before, but now that she starts to replay their conversation, it could definitely be considered such. But then Deathstroke decides to backpedal, and the brunette isn't so sure anymore. "Not that I've been looking."

Before he can answer, they reach the heart of the prison riot. As soon as Deathstroke sees a figure, she rushes forward, carrying her swords behind her. The first man goes down before he even sees her, and something rolls off to the side after her sword sails through the air. After a moment, Laurel realizes with horror that it's a head. Her stomach turns as a man reaches for the fearsome vigilante and draws back a stump of an arm with a blood-curdling scream. Green arrows join the fray, blossoming in any man who tries to get too close to her.

Laurel doesn't want to watch anymore, but she can't bring herself to look away, either. "I hope you have a better plan," the Arrow growls at his friend after a long moment. "I'm down to ten arrows. I can't cover you _and_ her with that." If the lawyer didn't know better, she'd say there was a hint of panic to his tone.

"I still have a few tricks up my sleeve," Deathstroke answers cryptically. "I've upgraded my arsenal a little since the last time we worked together." She pushes one of her swords into a man while kicking at one behind her and slicing with the other hand in a display that Laurel might find impressive under different, less bloody circumstances. "Use a grappler and pull Laurel to that upper tier with you. If I don't have this under control, I'll follow you up."

It's clear by the set of his mouth that he doesn't like that idea, but Deathstroke doesn't give him time to argue. Instead of responding, she stomps her right boot against the ground. Laurel can't see what happens next because suddenly the vigilante kicks an inmate in one eye. He screams wildly as blood goes everywhere for reasons she doesn't understand. Then the low light catches the gleaming edge at the end of her shoe—a hidden blade. The lawyer nearly loses the contents of her stomach when the vigilante kicks again, this time catching a man under the chin with the shoe blade as she decapitates another.

Fortunately, Laurel is distracted as a strong arm wraps around her waist. It startles her, but then she sees the green leather of his sleeve. Without a word, the Arrow fires an arrow into the ceiling with something that looks like a small crossbow, and then she scrambles to hold onto him as they're lifted out of the air. It's a moment before her feet touch ground again, and the vigilante takes a moment to look her over in a detached way, as if trying to discern injuries. "Are you alright?" he asks quietly, confirming her line of thought.

As he steps away from her, Laurel can't help but think there's something familiar about him—his cologne, the set of his jaw, the way he carries himself. For the first time, she thinks she might know this man, and it makes sense in a way that little this week has. She's not exactly a famous attorney, but yet he knew to come to her for help. He knew she'd leap at the chance to help a wrongfully imprisoned man. And then there was the almost familiar way he'd navigated her apartment. For the very first time, she wonders just who the hell he is under that hood.

And she is definitely going to find out. Maybe not tonight, but soon.

"Fine," she assures him, albeit a little breathlessly. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face as she squints in the dark at him, trying to make out more than the outline of his jaw. His eyes are covered by a mask, but even still, there's _something_ familiar about the shape of his face that she can't quite place. It's more a feeling than a definitive conclusion; his features seem to strike a chord in her, but it's just a faint, niggling thought at the back of her head.

Before she has much more time to stare, he nearly growls, "Stay here." Before she has a chance to assure him that anywhere she went would require her to drop ten feet to the ground, he's rushing forward in a dead run. When he gets almost even with Deathstroke, he throws himself over the edge without a moment of hesitation.

When he lands, Laurel can't help but follow his figure down, watching as he lands on two of Deathstroke's would-be assailants. The other vigilante doesn't even flinch at his sudden arrival; instead, she simply stabs one of her swords into the floor and offers him her left hand as she keeps her sword trained on another with her right. He takes the offered hand, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

Without missing a beat, she pulls her sword out of the ground, tossing it slightly so that she can offer the Arrow its hilt. As though they've done this a thousand times—and they might have, for all Laurel knows—he takes it and swings at one of the ten last inmates converging upon them.

Slowly, Laurel realizes that Deathstroke is right; the Arrow's technique pales in comparison to hers. While the female vigilante moves as though the blades are a part of her, his movements are disjointed and awkward beside his partner's graceful slashes. But that doesn't mean he's any less effective than she is; he's just as efficient a fighter. Neither is any more or less than the other in terms of effectiveness, but just different: while Deathstroke could be performing a dance with the fluidity and grace of her style, the Arrow strikes quickly and efficiently like a cobra.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the scene laid out before her, though, is they way they move _together_. They seem to lash out in all directions without any warning, but somehow they manage to complement each other in a way she thought wasn't possible. Just when she thinks Deathstroke is going to catch the Arrow with her shoe blade in her attempt to protect him from an encroaching attacker, he manages to turn and stab through an attacker on her other side, his blade just inches from her neck. In a way, it's a dance in its own right; they manage to move separately, but always together, creating a beautiful and deadly paradox.

Just when Laurel thinks she's seen it all, she watches as the two of them are pulled apart by their attackers, the Arrow facing three and Deathstroke battling two of her own. She winces because she can tell that the emerald archer is having trouble holding the three of them off on his own, but the masked swordsman seems to realize it at the same time. She dispatches her two attackers in a flurry of movements before breaking into a run toward her partner.

"Sword," Laurel hears her bark through the comm. It makes no sense to her, but the Arrow seems to understand. He continues to hold them off, but stops abruptly as she reaches him, passing the sword to his left hand. What happens next is difficult for Laurel's eyes to follow, but she watches the archer crouches, allowing his partner to roll over the top of him. How they manage it, she'll never know, but when Deathstroke rises on the other side, she does so with two blades that she buries in two of the remaining assailants. At the same time, the Arrow manages to get the third with a dart of some sort that Laurel didn't even realize he carried.

Suddenly the "armed and dangerous" phrase that comes with police reports is an understatement so ludicrous that it's laughable.

"Not bad for a night's work," Deathstroke declares, breathing hard. Though, in Laurel's opinion, not as hard as she probably should be. Then she points upward while knocking the toe of her right boot against the ground, concealing her hidden blade again. "We should get to the upper level with your grappling hook thing." In perhaps the most bizarre scene Laurel has come across tonight, the female vigilante mimes shooting the crossbow before adding, "Beam me up, Scotty."

The Arrow doesn't say anything, as is his wont, simply reaching for his partner and wrapping his arm around his waist as he pulls her into his side. He aims, but then turns to her with a warning so low that only the comm allows Laurel to hear it: "Hold on to me tight."

"I imagined you saying that under very different circumstances," Deathstroke answers, and her words are such a rush that Laurel can't help but wonder if she didn't mean to say them. It doesn't make sense to her, though—what kind of vigilante would she be if she couldn't maintain control of her words? The Arrow, however, seems to lose focus for a moment, his gaze snapping back to her. Apparently his scrutiny is enough to make her uncomfortable because she adds awkwardly, "Very _platonic_ circumstances."

Whatever the Arrow must think of that, Laurel doesn't know; he doesn't respond, and she can't see the set of his mouth from this angle. Instead, he simply fires the crossbow, and the momentum pulls them upward until they land a few feet away from Laurel. Unlike in her instance of rappelling, the Arrow seems to linger by Deathstroke's side for a moment before reluctantly unwinding his arm from her side.

The force of her burst of intuition hits her like a battering ram. The realization is so powerful that she has to grab the railing for support as she stares at the two of them. It's so obvious now, and she feels like an idiot for missing the truth in front of her face. Maybe it's because the Arrow is such a hard read because he's so impassive, but as he places his hand on her shoulder, it becomes the most obvious thing in the world.

Because the Arrow is desperately in love with the woman by his side.

She isn't sure if even he knows it, but she can tell there's something there based on the way he treats her compared to his partner, the way his first instinct is to protect the vigilante, even though she can clearly handle herself. Even though she can tell they're not together, there's definitely… _something_ between them that reminds her of that awkward stage between her and Tommy after that first one night stand.

"Are you alright?" he asks her in a low voice, oblivious to Laurel's unabashed staring. At the moment, she doubts they'd notice anything short of another prison riot. When they stare at each other like that, it almost makes her wonder if the world hasn't fallen away for the two of them. He frowns down at something, and it takes the lawyer a moment to realize Deathstroke's weight is shifted to one side, as if she's injured somehow.

With a gloved hand, Deathstroke tilts his head up so that he's looking at her, and Laurel thinks it says a lot about them that he doesn't flinch away from her touch. If there was ever a doubt if they knew each other's identities, it's long gone now. "Hey," she calls gently, displaying a soft side that the brunette thinks is more surprising than the Arrow's feelings about her, "this is nothing. I've been through worse." The brunette easily believes that; only tragic stories create fighters like the two standing in front of her. Then she adds in a normal tone, "You should see the other guys. Some of them even lost their heads."

The Arrow groans at her sense of humor. "Your jokes are getting worse," he declares with a shake of his head, just before waving them both forward. "We should get out of here before SWAT arrives." Then he turns to Deathstroke with a frown. "Can you walk?"

Even though Laurel can't see her face, she'd bet the vigilante is rolling her eyes. "I think you forgot that asshole with a baseball bat broke my ribs last month," she reminds him dryly. " _That_ was an injury—this is just a mild inconvenience." With that, he nods, though he doesn't seem happy about it. When she follows a few steps, though, Deathstroke barely has a limp.

When she realizes Laurel is lagging behind, Deathstroke motions her forward, between the two of them in some sort protective pattern. Only when she walks past the vigilante does the brunette realize she's taller than the other woman. It feels inherently wrong somehow, mostly because of her larger-than-life presence—which is what makes her decide that, while she might know the Arrow in everyday life, she's never met the woman who follows behind her. A presence like that is one she'd _definitely_ remember. In her own way, the female vigilante has a presence more fearsome than the Arrow himself. While he's quietly imposing, something about _her_ overshadows even him.

They follow like that for a while, leaving her to stare at the Arrow's back. Again she's hit with that wave of nostalgia, that feeling that she knows him somehow. She's met someone who carried himself like that, though she doesn't remember who. But she would bet that kind of posture comes from a military background.

Laurel jumps when Deathstroke speaks again, and when she turns back, she has a smartphone of some sort in her hands. "SWAT is on the move—they're closing in," she informs the Arrow in a voice that's suddenly all business. He turns back to look at her, slowing somewhat. She meets his eyes before continuing, "We need an extraction. Maybe you should call your guy." He frowns back at her, and she lifts a shoulder in response. "We could call mine, but he's not exactly inconspicuous. Actually, I think he's more like a bull in a china shop."

Something about that statement makes the Arrow laugh. "I'll make the call," he assures her, already pulling a cell phone out of the inside of his jacket. When he turns back, he gives both women a nice view of a black shirt, but Laurel can use to identify him. "You stay with her while I arrange the setup." Then he pauses as he presses his hand to his ear, something new entering his voice that Laurel can't quite place. "He's not going to like this."

"Oh, he's going to be pissed," Deathstroke agrees with ease. Her tone almost sounds cheerful, despite her words, and, for not the first time, Laurel thinks she might not be quite sane. "You probably need to let him know we're _both_ coming in hot—unless you want to pull some more bullets out of me. He might want to put _you_ in the loony bin, but he wants to put _me_ in the morgue." Then she shakes her head. "You need to do better picking your beautiful assistants, my friend."

The Arrow only laughs and shakes his head before picking up speed, moving away from their slower pace, probably to keep Laurel from hearing the call. It takes her a moment to realize she can't hear him, and she decides he muted his end of the earpiece somehow.

Leaving her alone with the other woman is almost just as well for her curiosity, as she studies the swordmaster next to her. Because of what she's about to say, she fishes the earpiece out of her ear before holding it out to Deathstroke. "I think you only gave me this so I'd know you were with the Arrow. Thank you." She takes it and pockets it as Laurel asks her softly, "Is there any way you can mute yours?"

Deathstroke only lifts a hand to her ear and presses against it. "We're muted," she informs her, "but if we're going to start girl talk, I'm turning it back on." The threat rings hollow to Laurel, but it's still enough to give her second thoughts. Maybe this isn't the best choice.

Finally she just blurts it, deciding that she has nothing to lose. Deathstroke isn't going to kill her—at least, not tonight—and she doesn't know how else to try and repay her for this. "I just think you should know that the Arrow is in love with you."

Instead of a declaration like _I know_ that Laurel has come to expect, the sound that leaves the vigilante is something like a snort. "Right," she scoffs flatly, "and I'm one of the Doctor's former companions." The mask turns to face her, though the full face mask reveals no hint of an expression beneath. "Which I'm not, by the way—much to my disappointment."

Her eyes trail the Arrow's retreating figure for a moment, and Laurel thinks there might be a little longing there. Finally the Vengeance of Starling turns back to her. "Look, Miss Lance," she throws down in a flat tone, "women like you are the ones who get happy endings. You live your life well, you have a career, find someone to spend the rest of your life with, and you find whatever it takes to give your life meaning." She shakes her head. "Women like me? We spend our lives hated, become ghost stories children tell, and our only ending comes from a body bag in a morgue."

Her voice grows quiet then, contrasting oddly with the intimidating modulator. "Women like me don't get the guy." And then her gaze follows the same path the emerald archer took a few moments ago. "And we sure as hell don't get guys like him." Then she shakes her head, as though to clear it, before taking slow steps down the walkway. "Believe it or not, he's actually a decent person. And he deserves someone who will help him rediscover that light inside him. I'm only going to drag him deeper into the darkness."

Laurel honestly doesn't know what to say to that, but Deathstroke doesn't really give her a chance; she pushes on her ear again, as though the Arrow is relaying instructions. "Come on," she demands, setting off in the direction her partner took only moments before. The brunette has to run a couple steps to catch up. "We're going to deliver you to SWAT before we make our grand exit."

She keeps moving, but then turns and walks backwards to look at the lawyer. "And I know you'll probably have to tell the cops something about what happened, but I'd consider it a personal favor if you said only good things about the Arrow. I've lost any chance at being on the same side as the cops, but your praise just might get Lance off his back for a few weeks."

Instead of waiting for an answer, she only turns around, leaving Laurel to think about that. As much as she hates to lie to her father, maybe she could keep their secrets for the time being—just this once, of course. After all, the reason she's alive is because two of Starling's most notorious killers decided that she was worth saving. If they believe that about her, then maybe she can give them the benefit of the doubt in return.

Before she can tell Deathstroke she'll keep their secrets, the Arrow appears, seemingly out of thin air, in front of them. "SWAT is waiting down below," he assures her, then he points toward the corner, where Laurel can see the beginnings of a staircase. "If you take that down, they'll keep you safe from here." He nods at her once. "Thank you for your help, Laurel. If you call, I'll return the favor."

Blinking twice, she can't help but answer, "Favors from both of the Starling City vigilantes? How could I say no to that?" A small smile forms on her mouth, and she finds the Arrow mirroring it. Only one corner of his mouth turns up, smaller and slower, as though he isn't used to smiling.

Then he nods to her before reaching for Deathstroke. The swordmaster, however, has different plans. Of all the things Laurel expects, it certainly isn't an awkward salute from the person who gives most of Starling City nightmares. "Miss Lance, it's been fun," she states, and it sounds almost as though she _means_ it, as if this is her idea of a good time. "Next time, though, let's try to avoid a prison riot."

"Come on," the Arrow cuts in, tugging on his partner's arm, using more force this time. "The idea of you two becoming friends makes me nervous." The last part isn't meant for her ears, but they're still in earshot and she can't help it. All she can do for a long moment is stare after the unlikely pair, before turning toward the stairwell in the corner.

The last thing she hears is Deathstroke's laugh echoing down the hallway.

* * *

Felicity laughs at his words as she flies down the hall beside Oliver, taking a special thrill in the chase clearly gearing up. She can hear SWAT behind them, calling to each other and yelling ridiculous phrases like _freeze you're under arrest_ and _stop or we'll shoot_. Something about it puts her in an oddly cheerful mood, which is what makes her call in challenge to her friend, "What, are you afraid I'll grill your ex for all of your dark, dirty secrets?"

Usually he doesn't bite on things like that, but Oliver seems to have caught her good mood. "I'm more concerned that she'll like you," he retorts before flashing one of those smiles that nearly make her trip over her own feet. "The last thing we need is _two_ of you running around this city."

"And I thought you liked me," Felicity answers, feigning hurt. They both know he means not a word of it; he spends too much time with her for him to dislike her. "You _wound_ me. And I'm not sure you want to make that mistake. I'm told I have a nasty temper."

He chuckles at that, a glorious sound. "You're growing on me," he assures her, not yet panting—the bastard. She's starting to get winded just trying to keep up with his longer legs. She didn't know Oliver could run like this. "The problem is that I don't know what to do with just _one_ of you, let alone two."

"I'm pretty sure you could come up with something," she answers dryly, between pants. For some reason, he nearly trips, and only when Felicity reaches out to steady him does she realize the innuendo in her own words. "And that wasn't what I meant—get your mind out of the gutter."

Instead of responding, Oliver reaches toward her, suddenly lacing his fingers through hers. It isn't unwelcome, but still surprising. "Do you trust me?" he asks her quietly, his voice a warning. From experience, she knows that is _definitely_ not a good sign.

She growls under her breath, but apparently he still hears her, judging by the soft sound of laughter Felicity earns for her trouble. "When you ask me that, I wish the answer was 'no,'" she replies flatly. "Let me guess—more air acrobatics? Damn it, you _know_ how I feel about heights."

His answer isn't really an answer at all, but she knows how to read it. After three months of Oliver Queen in her life, sometimes she thinks she can read him like a book. "I promise if there's an escape route that ever involves boats, you can drag _me_ along," he responds, one corner of his mouth turning up, despite the hurt she knows must come from that statement. Then, for the sake of clarification, he adds, "I've never been on a boat that didn't sink."

Felicity isn't given the opportunity to answer before he gathers her up in his arm, throwing himself into the small window. She doesn't expect it to break, but it does, and they fall through it. Ever the gentleman (when he wants to be, of course), Oliver somehow manages to twist them so that he lands first, his back slamming onto the concrete below. From experience, she can say that's probably going to hurt in the morning. Still, he manages to scramble to his feet just as fast as her.

"I'm out of ideas," he warns her quietly, just as sirens start wailing again from the prison.

Laughing, Felicity decides this is exactly why she likes working with him: they seem to be able to complement each other in skills. She pulls on his arm, nodding toward the keypad at the back gate, where they receive supplies. He catches on as she starts running again, catching up to her quickly. "Fortunately for you, Iron Heights hasn't updated their security system in _years_ ," she informs him. "I could hack that thing in my sleep." Then she looks at him. "I could use a distraction."

Instead of answering, he simply pulls some sort of switch out of his pocket. "You're not the only one to gain some new tricks," he says to her in an unreadable tone that makes her think that _he_ might be the one making innuendos now. Then he flicks the switch, and bricks fly out of the top of Iron Heights, followed by a thick smoke against the sky that appears with a delayed thundering sound. "That should keep them occupied."

Not needing an invitation, Felicity turns to the keypad, working her magic to override it. "That is so unfair," she mutters to him under her breath. "I get a shoe blade, and you somehow have managed to find enough C4 to pack a punch." She turns back to him as the light on the keypad turns green. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Immediately it dawns on her what she said, and she winces. "You know what I meant."

Instead of answering, he simply shakes his head and touches her arm. "We should get out of here before you get us into more trouble," is his only answer, and she thinks he might be referring to her runaway mouth this time.

Oliver takes the lead, and she runs behind him, following him toward the black van parked suspiciously against the curb. She hears him call for Diggle to start moving as he reaches it, holding out a hand for Felicity to take. Instead, she chooses to pick up speed and jump, slamming into him. The archer grunts as they land with him beneath her again, but this time she's in less of a hurry to get to her feet. After all, the image of Oliver Queen below her is too good to pass up a second time.

"I'm so going to remember this later," she mutters absently into his collar bone. For the moment, his arm around her with her knees on either side of his hips, and she's not sure that will do well for her already overactive imagination.

Pushing on the floor of the van on either side of his head, she lifts herself up, into a sitting position, and only then does she _really_ take time to consider that she's straddling him and the ramifications of that. Before she can awkwardly climb off of him, she watches as something flickers through his expression that she isn't sure she _wants_ to read. Whatever it is, it would probably be bad for her self-control. "Me, too," Oliver answers in a tone that almost sounds like it's filled with wonder, as if he can't believe what he's seeing. In that moment, Felicity can't help but wonder if the crazy spiel laurel gave her earlier wasn't so crazy after all.

Then his expression turns into something she _does_ recognize—mischief. "I don't remember you being this heavy when I carried you out of Hunt's building," he adds, though it's clear he's only teasing her.

With that, she slides off of him to her left, and her right boot brushes low on his abdomen, level with the middle of his hips. Unable to resist, she reminds him with a smile, "You do realize I have a blade in that shoe, right?" There's no violence in the taunt, of course; she'd probably cut her own heart out before she'd hurt Oliver. Still, if he's going to pick the volatile subject of a woman's weight, he should expect her to respond just as violently.

"And I hope you realize that I have a gun," a new voice adds to their conversation. At the same time, Oliver lets out a light laugh at her statement, but she also notices that he slides himself up into a sitting position while subtly pushing her foot away. "If you touch him, I won't hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes," Diggle continues, rather calm despite the words coming out of his mouth.

If he wants her to bite, he's solely disappointed. Instead, Felicity pulls her knees up to her chest, leaning back against the wall of the van to catch her breath. Well, she _thinks_ it's a wall at first; when she brushes against it, she realizes that it's actually Oliver's motorcycle. Diggle must have picked it up to avoid suspicion. "Why would I kill one of two people that actually tolerate me, Digg?" she replies. "And I see he wasn't kidding when he said you want to kill me. Usually people have to at least _meet_ me before they start having visions of homicide." He has, of course, but he doesn't know that at the moment; he met Felicity Smoak then.

And Oliver must be contagious because now she's thinking about herself in the third person, too.

"Thanks for giving a sociopathic murderer my name, man," Diggle tells his friend with a note of sarcasm, and Felicity suddenly remembers why she thought he was good for Oliver. "The next time you two go on a killing spree together, leave my name out of it, okay?" Then he turns his attention back to her. "Now, where is the closest place I can get you the hell out of my van?"

The fatigue setting in now has nothing to do with the action she's endured tonight. She thought she could handle this, but she actually _likes_ John Diggle, and she isn't sure how much more of his verbal lashing she can take in one setting. "If you'll give me enough time to switch into civilian clothes, you can drop me wherever the hell you want to," she answers tiredly as she notes the duffels in the front passenger seat. It appears Oliver thinks of almost everything. "I can walk home from there."

"It's the middle of the night in the Glades," Oliver growls in response. When she turns to look at him, his face is a thundercloud, and she realizes he's actually _serious_ about this. "No one walks the streets at night except criminals. Absolutely not."

She can't help rolling her eyes at that. "I'm not your lawyer girlfriend, Oliver," she replies, the fatigue starting to make her lose patience. "You seem to forget that, despite how dangerous those criminals are, they still check their closets before they go to bed for _me_. I'm scarier than anything else out there—except maybe _you_."

There's a long pause, and then fabric rustles and his knee knocks against hers. "Maybe you're not scarier," he answers in an unreadable tone, "but you're definitely more dangerous." There's a slight pause before his hand drops onto the top of her knee. "Thank you for tonight. I know you didn't want to storm into a prison riot."

"Maybe not," Felicity allows as she drops her hand on top of his, "but I _did_ want to help you." She squeezes his hand once. "I'm not going to let someone important you die just because I don't want to get my hands dirty. If you ever need my help to save _any_ of your friends and family—Laurel, Tommy, Thea, your mom—I'm going to be extremely pissed if you _don't_ call me."

"Great," Diggle adds his commentary from the driver's seat, "Deathstroke knows _your_ name, too. You ever think that maybe he would turn you in to save his own hide someday?" Oliver's stony silence is answer enough, but John isn't prepared to let it go. "Why wouldn't he?"

Felicity cuts him off before he even really gets going. "Oh, that's easy," she answers without missing a beat. "I like him a lot better alive and from the other side of barbed wire. It's not really a fair trade, anyway. Oliver's freedom is worth more than mine." Then she shrugs, cutting the archer off before he can even start to argue. As far as she's concerned, her life is forfeit, anyway. "Besides, it doesn't really matter. Anyone who catches up to me isn't going to put me behind bars. They're going to put three in me and be done with it."

Everyone falls into a dark silence at that, but it's something that Felicity came to terms with a long time ago. If they want to kill her, so be it; the best parts of her died three years ago anyway. Instead of trying to fill the tension, she instead rises to grab the two duffel bags from the passenger seat. She tosses Oliver's to him first, while saying, "Come on, we need to get out our gear. This whole city is probably looking for the two of us by now. You blew up a federal prison, after all."

"And you killed about thirty inmates," he reminds her, "just with the blade in your shoe." As she pulls her own bag back, his eyes focus on her with a silent question. "I know how you are about revealing your identity," he states. "Are you sure you want to do this here?" Because Oliver has to be one of the most closed-mouthed people she's ever met, he's never revealed her identity, even by accident; somehow he manages to refer to Deathstroke with a masculine pronoun.

Though she _is_ very touchy about keeping her alter-ego a secret, she sees no choice in the matter. "Digg is going to figure it out the moment he stops driving and actually looks at me," she answers flatly. "He's a smart guy—I'm not going to try to pull one over on him. That would be an insult to both of us."

"He's also right here in the front seat," the man in question adds, honking at a driver who made the mistake of pulling out in front of him. "So he wants you to stop talking about him." Then he makes a motion to look through the rear view mirror. "What am I missing that you think I'll see?"

"My identity," Felicity answers honestly. "But don't worry—you'll find that out soon enough." She turns her back to the rear view before pulling off the mask. "Finally," she breathes, pushing back a few very damp strands of hair. "You would not believe how stuffy this thing is. Next suit I get, I'm downsizing to a mask like you." She can't resist adding, "But minus the eyeshadow."

Even Diggle snorts at that one, though she knows it probably pains him to do so. "You've been begging for a round on the mats all night," he declares instead, switching off his modulator just in time for her to hear the smile in his voice. "But now, I might not fight fair." His tone is off, and, if she didn't know better, she'd say he was almost flirting with her.

It's enough to make her glance at him out of the corner of her eye, and she realizes he's staring at the other side of the van with his jacket off, but he hasn't moved otherwise. "When did you get shy?" Felicity can't help but ask. "I promise not to ogle you again."

"It's a small van with the bike taking up half the room," he answers, and there's something off about his voice.

Though it's probably a warning to back off, Felicity has never been good at taking signals—especially when it's more fun to taunt him. "And?" she retorts. "I think we've already established that I don't bite." After all, the man spends nearly every other night in her bed, something that she tries _very_ hard to avoid telling anyone.

Roy found out—he was bound to eventually—but he spends most of his time trying to pretend he doesn't know. At least, that's what she took from his exasperated declaration: _Look, Blondie, if you wanna bump uglies with Richie Rich, that's_ your _business, but the least you could do is shut your damn door. I'd like to walk down the hall every once in a while without feeling the urge to throw up._ He has yet to believe that they've never had sex, and she's given up trying to convince him of that. She can't really even blame him; on its face, it doesn't really make sense for a notorious womanizer like Oliver Queen to spend every night with the _one_ straight woman in Starling City who isn't interested in knocking boots. But beyond that, Oliver probably feels the same way she does about it: that it's nice to be surrounded by someone who wants nothing from her other than her company and completely understands her.

Pulling off his boots before rising into a crouch because of the low ceiling, he answers in a low murmur, "You're going to get both of us into trouble." Felicity doesn't answer because she's switched off her modulator, and she instead focuses on removing her jacket. When she strips off the black tank underneath it, she could almost swear she hears Oliver let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

Because she promised not to stare, she keeps her eyes on her bag as she unzips her boots. The sword belt comes off next, and in some ways, she feels more naked without it than when she left her top half covered by only her sports bra. She's never changed out of her gear around someone before, and something about the position makes her feel vulnerable.

When she's almost out of her pants, she manages to get her foot tangled, throwing her off balance. Oliver reaches out to steady her, his hand making contact with the bare skin of her waist. She can't resist looking at him, which brings her eyes even with the pointed star tattoo on his pectoral she somehow managed to miss before. "You're Bratva?" she can't help but demand in whisper. She can feel that old familiar fire start to build up within her: rage, pure and simple. Even so, she tries to tone it down for her friend's sake as she accuses, "You've been holding out on me, Oliver."

Because she knows Oliver so well, it shouldn't bother her, but part of her feels like he just sucker punched her in the gut. After all, he _knows_ she targets gun runners, and the Bratva are just as bad as Slade's old employers. There has to be an explanation because he wouldn't agree with their cruelty or their drug sales or their sex trafficking operation, but even as she tells herself for that, the part of her who sees the worst in humanity every day can't help but doubt.

It surprises her when his thumb sinks lower with his gaze, rubbing a circle on the right side of her abdomen, almost even with her navel. "And you're Fenghuang," he notes, with special emphasis in his voice, reminding her that she had to sell her soul to the devil to get her revenge. "The same monsters you hunt every night." Only then does he dare to meet her eyes. "Sometimes the masks we wear aren't physical. And I did what I had to do to survive." _Just like you_ is left hanging in the air, but at least he has the decency not to say it.

Instead of answering directly, Felicity decides that maybe an apology isn't enough to show how badly she screwed up by jumping to a conclusion. "They broke me," she admits in a low voice with no warning. He knows better than to speak, though, instead letting her finish. "Three months in, I stopped fighting. I didn't have anything left to fight _with_ anymore. A couple of the guards thought they would take advantage of the quiet and slipped into my cell. I still don't know what they were going to do. None of them ever touched me—they seemed to enjoy beating me more. Whatever it was, though, Slade stopped them before they could do anything more than toss me around." She swallows hard. "He told me I was pathetic and threw a knife on the ground next to me. Said that if I was going to lie down on the ground like a dog, I might as well die like one—kill myself and escape my misery."

"And he underestimated you," Oliver answers quietly, always managing to know her too well.

She nods. "It awakened something in me I didn't know I had," Felicity continues, her voice never rising above a whisper. "He thought I'd slit my own throat, but instead I put it through his foot and told him about a creative way to use a cactus." She can't help the breathy laugh that leaves her. "I thought he'd kill me in a rage, but instead he pulled me to my feet, looked at me for a moment. Then he just laughed as he pulled the knife out of his boot and said, 'Looks like there might be a survivor in you after all. We just have to get you angry enough to fight back.'" She flattens her hand against his chest. "That's why I jump to conclusions, why I'd rather make myself angry than wait for an explanation. It kept me alive for seven months."

"Better than selling your soul to stay alive," he answers in a tone she can't quite read. Little does he know that the phoenix on her hip proves she did _precisely_ that. "The Bratva is just a connection," he tells her in a flat voice. "I use them when I need information—just like you do with the Fenghuang. That's why I gave you Alexei Leonov and a location for helping me with Deadshot. My loyalty is to _you_ , not a brotherhood that stands for everything I hate."

It's a gracious acceptance of her apology, and she thanks him with a smile and, against her better judgment, a kiss to his cheek. "I don't deserve you, Oliver Queen," she declares against the stubble on his jaw in a whisper. Only then does she realize her state of undress, and, for the first time in years, it actually makes her uncomfortable.

She turns back to her clothes with that, feeling foolish, but Oliver isn't so quick to let her go. Instead, his hands tangle in her hair, pulling on the elastic holding the remnants of her French braid loose. He's more gentle than she would ever be, unwinding it without pulling any hair with the elastic. While he works on it, she manages to pull on the jeans from her bag—almost like another kind of armor entirely. He works it loose before turning back to his own clothes, leaving Felicity to pull on her t-shirt in peace. (She has to look down at it to realize which one it is—the tenth Doctor stares back at her with the words around it reading, _Sweet? Maybe. Passionate? I suppose. But don't ever mistake that for nice._ )

Even though she promised, Felicity can't help but look back at Oliver, catching him just as he pulls a pair of jeans over his hips, too focused on trying to fasten them to notice her ogling. The thoughts that follow are ones she doesn't deserve to have, ones that have to stay locked in the back of her mind, despite how she'd like nothing more than to act on them.

Then she shakes her head, wondering again at how all it took to break down all of her defenses was Oliver Queen with a hood and a bow. Feelings like this—the ones that make her chest tight and her throat close up—are _exactly_ why she's tried so hard to keep everyone at arm's length. Her days are numbered and few; eventually _someone_ is going to catch up with her, and she'll be lucky if all they do is kill her.

But now, she has the potential of bringing Oliver down with her. The thought is almost too terrible to bear, and she promises herself that isn't going to happen. Even if part of her wants to hope that Laurel was right when she spouted insanity earlier, she also hopes the lawyer was horribly wrong.

She's about to leave when she catches the glimmer of grease paint still around his eyes, and it makes her falter. When her hands touch his face, he stops in the middle of zipping his jeans, to stare at her. Without a word of explanation, she uses her thumb to brush away the smudges left near his eyes—those beautiful, blue eyes. Something about his gaze makes her feel laid bare, so she tries to ignore it, focusing instead on the green paint.

Feeling vulnerable after she finishes, Felicity tries to turn back to her business, but Oliver catches her hands, refusing to let her go. Instead, he uses a handkerchief from his bag to wipe at the green on her thumbs. The intensity in his eyes does interesting things to her insides, making the blonde want to squirm and run and kiss him into tomorrow all at once. Just when she thinks she's survived the worst, he pulls her hand up to his mouth, running his lips across her fingers in a gesture of thanks.

She nearly comes undone at that.

After trying so hard to keep him at arm's length, despite how much she wants to do the opposite, it takes every ounce of willpower for the female vigilante to refrain from pulling her hand away and replacing her hand with her mouth. She shouldn't want him—doesn't deserve it—but, in Felicity's experience, the heart often wants that which it can never have. And as much as she wishes it wasn't true, Oliver Queen isn't hers and will never be.

Because she loves him too much to drag him down with her.

Before she can get herself into any more trouble, Felicity bolts like the coward she is, lingering just long enough to cup his face. After returning to her bag, she decides to take her sneakers and socks to the front, only stopping to find her tablet. She drops into the seat next to Diggle as she rolls a black sock onto her foot. "So," she asks him, her voice only shaking slightly, "what did _you_ do tonight?"

John glances over at the sound of her voice, his eyes darting back to the front before he actually turns to face her, blinking several times. She watches as the pieces come together, as he slowly realizes what he's seeing and makes sense of it. "You're Deathstroke," he accuses with narrowed eyebrows. Felicity only nods, and he shakes his head angrily. "Son of a bitch. That's why you were the one to pick up my tail."

"In my defense," Felicity starts while tying her shoes, "I offered to bake you cookies when you were camped out across the street. _Oliver_ was the one who said no." She waves a hand after her laces are tied. "Despite what the beheading and killing might lead you to believe, I'm not heartless. _No one_ should have to sit in a twenty-year-old Ford for three hours with nothing else to do." She crosses her arms. "I know you don't like me, John. I respect that, and I know you probably want me off the streets. But before you give my name to the cops, you might want to consider that they probably won't believe you. None of those old misogynists on the force will want to believe that the monster in their nightmares is a woman."

Diggle glances at her again. "Not going to threaten me?" he retorts in a flat tone.

Shrugging, Felicity replies, "Of course not. I like you—I think you're a good man, John." She blows out a breath. "Everything you know about me comes from a reporter with a pen and an impressive amount of wit. I've done the things they say I have, but that doesn't mean they know anything about me." After biting her lip for a moment, she decides to add, "They paint me as the monster because they don't realize there are worse things out there than me. The people I kill are drug barons, weapons dealers, sex traffickers—those are the _real_ monsters. I guess that makes me the lesser of two evils."

He's unyielding, of course, but that doesn't surprise Felicity a bit; once John Diggle makes up his mind about something, she doubts that it's easy to convince him otherwise. "Everyone always seems to forget this, Felicity," he answers in a hard tone, unrelenting, "but the lesser of two evils is still evil."

She thinks about that for a moment as her tablet powers up. Then her initial thought leaves her mouth before she can stop it: "I've been called worse." The withering glance he throws her makes her think he assumes she's mocking him, but it's the truth. "No, really. People usually call me a monster. Or the devil. Or insane. In multiple languages, even." She laughs, thinking about what Slade's former commander said tonight in his last breath: _The devil released his pet monster to kill me, then._ "The gun runners call me a monster, but they don't realize I'm the monster _they_ created."

A hand falls on her shoulder. "What are you doing?" Oliver asks over her shoulder, staring at the screen that she's navigating with practiced ease. "That's the footage from Iron Heights," he realizes as he stares at it. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Delete it," Felicity answers simply, watching the screen as she watches their joint maneuvers play out on the screen. "Maybe after saving a copy for myself to watch later," she amends, her eyebrows shooting up at their display of fighting techniques. "I never thought I'd say this, Oliver, but you aren't pathetic with a sword here. I might actually have to apologize for the girl scout crack."

"Now if we could only get your archery on point," he deadpans over her shoulder, his breath fanning against her neck as she works on the footage. It's distracting, but not in a bad way. As he watches the clip of her taking out an attacker with her shoe blade, he adds, "The hidden blade was a nice touch. But I'm not sure you've ever met a blade you didn't like."

Felicity recognizes the compliment for what it's worth, trying to bury the goofy grin that threatens to come to her face. "And your archery is gorgeous, as always," she answers as she deletes the footage. Only then does she turn to him with a more contained smile than the one that threatened to break loose earlier. "We're both good at what we do."

"Better together," Oliver adds pointedly.

He's right, of course, but working together as a team could still get him killed. And that just simply isn't acceptable in Felicity's world. She's only ever going to be a monster, but Oliver is just temporarily lost—and he has people like Diggle to make sure he finds his way out again. In a way, the reason they work together is because of their differences; she's the yin to his yang. For the most part, she's the night, but there's still a little kindness buried within her. Oliver, on the other hand, is the light, with only a few touches of darkness gracing him—darkness that she influences when she's with him.

But, as much as she knows she should, Felicity can't bring herself to let him go.

"True," she answers finally, quietly, "but we have to keep them on their toes. Just when they think they know what we'll do, we turn around and surprise them." The van stops then, and she looks up in surprise to see her house on Ocean Avenue staring back at her. "Guess that's my stop," she notes, surprised when disappointment touches her tone.

As she tucks her tablet under her arm, she turns to the driver. "Thank you for the ride, Digg." Meeting his hard stare without flinching, Felicity nods toward Oliver. "Take care of him—he needs someone to look after him." Something about John's expression falters at that, but she doesn't care to read it. The exhaustion is starting to replace the former adrenaline rush, and the idea of arguing with him again isn't enticing.

When she turns to Oliver, he holds out her duffel for her. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Deathstroke," he offers, something stiff and almost formal about it. It confuses her at first, but then she can feel Diggle's eyes on them. Apparently he's offering to keep the finer details of their relationship to himself.

She rolls her eyes at that. He's been in her bed and seen her in only her underwear—even kissed her a few times. They're past friendly chit-chat, and she's not going to lie about the one _good_ thing in her life. Their relationship is walking a delicate line between friendship and something more, and has been from the day he pulled a bullet out of her shoulder. It might be complicated and maddening at times, but at least it's real.

Felicity takes the duffel out of his hand before moving closer, standing on her toes to place a kiss at the corner of his mouth. When she pulls back, his eyes have fallen closed, but then they flutter open to stare at her. "I could say the same to you, Arrow," she answers with a smile. "If you need me, you know where to find me."

As she walks away, she hears Diggle say to Oliver, "You just like playing with fire, don't you, man?"

* * *

 _Playlist:_

 _"We're Alive" - Stitched Up Heart_  
 _"Save Me" - Hollywood Undead_  
 _"Absolution" - The Pretty Reckless_  
 _"Kill Everyone" - Hollywood Undead_  
 _"Amen" - Halestorm_  
 _"Sell Your Soul" - Hollywood Undead_  
 _"Heaven Knows" - The Pretty Reckless_  
 _"Angel Eyes" - New Years Day feat. Chris Motionless_  
 _"Too Many Faces" - Cherri Bomb_  
 _"Here's to Us" - Halestorm_  
 _"Shatter Me" - Lindsey Stirling feat. Lzzy Hale_  
 _"Don't Feel Right" - The Dirty Youth_  
 _"Fire" - Orianthi_  
 _"Burn Bright" - My Chemical Romance_


End file.
